The Proposal
by Rosethorn2
Summary: Proposing to the love of one's life should not be this difficult. Really.


**Notes:** This was written in response to a comment at the USxUK LJ community in one of the mod love posts back in July. It took me this long to write, but I'd like to think it's worth it! First Hetalia fanfic (though if you've followed my writing that's not news). I like the fandom a lot, and may write more in it. As of right now, this is a one-shot. I may write a companion piece from America's POV, but for right now, after all the work in it, I'd rather let it stand alone and see how it goes.

The comment given was that the poster wanted a fic with England proposing to his longtime love female!America. A website with proposal ideas was included in the request, some of which were picked for this (including the much-asked-for number 7). It's not _exactly_ how the request was framed (which was an AU setting). I decided to stick closer to canon (well, future!canon-ish), and just change the gender of America. I hope it's to everyone's liking!

**Warnings:** Language, fem!America

**Pairings: **USxUK

The Proposal  
By Rosethorn

He couldn't believe he was doing this. He was going to go over to talk to the fucking _frog_ about proposing to America. _Oh, how low the mighty hath fallen_, he reflected grimly, trying to spot France among the milling countries waiting for the meeting to begin. He was hoping to make this as quick and painless as possible—30 seconds or less would be ideal. Knowing France however, this subject would probably be shelved until after the meetings had wrapped up for the day, so that the moron could devote all of his time to the "pursuit of _l'amour_" (or some similar trite nonsense). England still hadn't quite grasped how he had fallen this far. Granted, his first proposals had gone over rather poorly…

* * *

**Attempt 1:**

His first thought, after having dated for several months, was that Ally—America—had a natural flair for the dramatic. She loved the cinema, and would frequently drag him from horrid film to horrid film on many of their dates. (And while he didn't mind the darkness to initiate a decent snogging session, she actually seemed to _want_ to watch these atrocious…things.) In any case, as she had this flair for the dramatic, and since he had been alive during the lifetimes of some of the best playwrights in history—_the_ best, if you really wanted to push it—England considered it a simple thing to arrange to meet America in Central Park (less suspicion if he came to her), dig out his old suit of armor, buy a nice ring, rent a horse, ride up, and propose to her on bended knee after he had spirited her away on horseback during a moonlit night. What he had not counted on was: 1, his armor was horridly rusted in places and, even when cleaned, squeaked rather noisily if he did anything it deemed as too strenuous (i.e.: moving); 2, he had no idea what size ring America actually _wore_; 3, even if his armor _hadn't_ squeaked, there was no way any of the horses for rent in Central Park could bear the weight of it without collapsing—honestly, when had draft horses gone out of style anyway?; 4, the fact that, while he was wrangling the horse problem, he had made himself very late. And while America was usually late, she was rarely _that_ late—she had since moved from the designated meeting spot to some other area entirely; 5, he had underestimated how terrifying someone looked in full, traditional medieval armor in moonlight, under streetlamps; and 6, America loved to play the hero—even when on romantic surprise dates.

Needless to say, all his hopes were rather dashed by the end of the evening. He first gave up the thought of getting a damned horse, after realizing that no one in the five boroughs would have one robust enough to carry him in full regalia. Shaking his head in disgust, he asked the handlers for the current time, and just about choked when he realized that he was over a half hour late. Making his way quickly to where he was supposed to meet America, he accidentally bumped into another couple out for a romantic stroll in the moonlight. The man of the couple, apparently, was easily excited, and yelled quite loudly that they had a "psycho-attacker" who was bent on robbing them in chain mail. Eager to reassure them, England tried to pull back the visor on his helm, only to have his arm catch halfway up. Somehow the pauldron had gotten caught on the mail—he still wasn't sure how exactly—and so his arm stayed caught halfway up to flip up his visor. America, wondering what all the commotion was about, quickly ran over in time to see a couple of her people being held up by some nutjob in a suit of armor (who must have stolen it from a museum for it to be _that_ authentic). Next thing England knew, he was lying face-up, staring at the inside of his helm, spots dancing before his eyes. He could dimly hear a familiar female voice yelling at him, but it took a moment to place.

"—and how could you think to rob these poor people after you stole that armor from a museum (and you _are_ going to tell me which museum, or Artie'd have my head)—"

_America?_

"Don't…call me…that," he choked out. His arm, having gotten loose in the fall, moved up and pushed the visor back, and he was able to make out the angry—quickly turning surprised—face of his lover. The couple had since long gone their own hurried way away, both in terror of the "chain mail bandit," and the loud, tall woman that was saving them. America had put on a very nice dress for the occasion, something that was lost on England as he fought to regain his faculties. He'd managed to not be on the receiving end of one of America's tackles in a long time, and had forgotten just how woozy one could be after them.

_She could teach Germany a thing or two about a blitz._

"A-_Arthur_? What the hell are you doing in _that_ getup? I thought you were going to surprise me with something…well…nice. You haven't been talking to your fairies and unicorn about dating again, have you?" England groaned and let his head flop back into the helm, realizing that there was no way to salvage his proposal. He mentally scrapped the idea, then paused, realizing that he had no idea where the ring box had ended up. Managing an awkward—and painful—scramble up, he turned about to see that the box had been flattened beneath him. Entirely squashed like a pancake—in such a way that the diamond was the only thing surviving impact. Sighing mentally, and resigning himself to yet another few hours at the local jeweler's, he turned back toward America, who looked at his clenched hands curiously. He noted with a feeling of dismay that not only was she wearing a nice dress, she had put on _make up_ and _perfume_, and all the other "girly" things that she would forgo when it was just Ally.

_Oh __**hell**__,_ he thought, with no little amount of chagrin. _There's no way to fix this, is there? Think, man, think!_

"So," he began finally, trying to distract her from prying too deeply, "I assume that since my plans for the evening did not pan out as expected, you would like to pick something to do?" Her eyes lit up, as he had hoped, and she babbled on for a few minutes about McDonald's and seeing a new horror movie at her house. He tuned her out in fond exasperation, grateful that he had somehow managed to (somewhat) fix the situation. Holding out his arm, he was surprised to note that she actually put her hand through it. Usually, she just laughed at his "stuffy, old man manners" and would run ahead laughing. Glancing over, he noticed that she had a light blush to her cheeks and realized that she somehow _knew_ something special was supposed to have happened, and that it had somehow gotten bollocksed up. That realization led to another: she was trying to comfort him about it all. Reassure him. His cheeks grew slightly warm as well at the thought.

_Well_, he reflected, _at least tonight wasn't an __**entire**__ disaster._

_

* * *

_

**Attempt 2:**

After his first attempt had failed so dramatically, England decided the best course of action laid in having fewer uncontrolled variables. America was due to fly in for a visit in the next few weeks, and England figured a nice candlelit dinner would be sufficiently romantic for a proposal. He had taken the ring back to the jeweler for refashioning (the jeweler's face was a comical study of dismay upon seeing the condition in which the ring had arrived), and had dug out a couple of nice champagne flutes. He'd read somewhere that it was a romantic gesture to put the ring in the bottom of one of the flutes for the lady in question to find as they toasted the evening. And of course he'd make the dinner himself. What kind of gentleman would he be if he just got some kind of catered meal to show his dear America? Besides, how hard could it be?

His third attempt at a simple pork roast told him that it was harder than it looked to cook a romantic meal for two. Knowing that he could sometimes have difficulty in the kitchen, England had started early in the day so as to give himself plenty of time to get ready for dinner, which was to be held promptly at 7. He had sent America out on some sort of errand right after she had arrived, making sure to tell her to take her time and to save room for dinner. She had given him an uneasy look before leaving, something that made England grit his teeth. He resolved grimly that he would, somehow, get dinner perfect for this evening—even if it was only to show America he _could_ bloody well cook _something_ correctly. He had settled on something simple: roast pork with mashed potatoes and peas, with a couple of baked apples for dessert. Not something exactly English, but not something entirely American either. He decided early on to shelve any thoughts of gravy, after the explosions of 1745, 1899, 1962, and America's personal favourite, 2003. (There were other explosions over the years with gravies, but those four were the most memorable.) Which led him back to the problem at hand: he was down to his last roast, the peas had turned into some kind of gelatinous goop in the pan on the cooker, the potatoes had long since disintegrated into the water, and the apples were two lumps of charcoal sitting on a sheet pan on the counter next to the oven. At this point, Arthur was about ready to tear his hair out in sheer frustration. Damn and blast it all, he was _trying_! He really was. He had this sneaking suspicion that someone, somewhere, had it in for him. Sighing and running a hand through his hair, he turned back to the last roast, and decided it would be a good idea to get out a different cookbook. Maybe America had dropped one off at some point. One of her infamous "gag gifts," or some such nonsense.

_Ah yes,_ he smiled in satisfaction, _bright black and yellow. No problem spotting it at…__Cooking for Dummies__?_ Eyebrow twitching, England swallowed what little pride he had left and pulled out the offending book to see if there were some way to get dinner back on schedule—but not before vowing:_ I will __**get**__ Ally for this. Somehow, somewhere…_

Two hours later, he had managed to make a roast that appeared to neither have burnt nor disintegrated. He was hopeful, as that put him ahead of his first two. Sighing happily, he moved the roast from the pan onto a cutting board to "rest" as the blasted book put it. Why something that was already dead needed to rest was beyond him, but the book hadn't steered him wrong yet. Looking through the crisper drawer, he came across a not-too-badly-wilted head of lettuce which, when coupled with the couple of tomatoes he'd picked a day previous sitting on his counter, along with a few carrots that were sitting next to the lettuce, would make a decent salad. He still had some cider vinegar and lemons to drizzle on it when he was finished as well.

_Well,_ he thought, starting to feel his spirits rise from their previous position (somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes), _it would appear that I may have managed to get a decent dinner created after all._ Then he heard a crash coming through the front door. Followed by:

"Oi, Iggy! I got a few burgers from McDonald's! I figured whatever it was you were…er… 'cooking' was bound to have blown up by now, and that you might be hungry, so…" America trailed off, staring at what had to have been one of the worst glares she'd received in the last 100 years. Glancing behind England, she just about dropped her bag in shock at what looked to be an intact roast of some type along with a fairly tame salad sitting next to it. "Wow! Did you get France to come over and cook something?" England, striving for control reminded himself that yes, he did love this woman, and yes, he really wanted to marry her and spend the rest of his life with her. Though at this precise second, he couldn't seem to remember _why_.

"America," he gritted out, keeping his hands clenched in his apron. "Why don't you go upstairs and dress for dinner, yeah?" He managed a smile (that looked more like a menacing grimace, if you were to ask Ally), and gestured sharply at the stairs. She nodded slowly, knowing that one false move would probably make England lose what little control he had on his temper, and knowing her luck, she'd not only wear the burgers she'd bought, but also the roast and salad as accessories. Resigning herself to another inedible dinner, she pondered how many burgers she could eat before coming down without making England suspicious. England's grimace turned into a scowl as he watched her hold the McDonald's bag tighter, seeming to clutch it like a lifeline. He stomped back towards the kitchen, muttering under his breath about "bloody Yanks" and "ungrateful chits" while he searched for some kind of bread to round out the meal. Finding some rolls stashed away in the refrigerator—how they got there, he still didn't know—he pulled them out to warm up on the counter while he went upstairs to get dressed up himself.

Sighing, England pushed open his bedroom door, only to find that America was still dressing. Was putting on stockings, in fact. Black stockings that looked very nice with her short, black dress. England found himself flushing, and turned away, clearing his throat to alert America to his presence. He glanced over again to see her looking up at him through her curls, an impish grin playing around her lips.

"Like what you see, Artie?" she drawled, slowly drawing the black fabric up her left leg until it was about mid-thigh. "I know that I do. You look very cute in that apron. Barring cooking disasters, you'd make an excellent wife!" Whatever arousal England was feeling at that moment quickly died at her words.

_Dinner had better work tonight_, he thought grimly as he made his way over to his wardrobe. _Because if it doesn't, America may not live to see me try again._

After years, or so it seemed, England had managed to get America downstairs—why she was always so wary of his cooking, he'd never know. The champagne flutes were resting next to a tin of biscuits (slightly stale, but at least it was _something_ for dessert), and dinner was appearing to go smoothly. England dared make a small sigh of relief as Ally finished the last bit of her third slice of roast before pushing her plate away with a slight smile. He mentally reviewed the last hour and realized that not one mishap had occurred since they both sat down to eat. Sure, there was the small accident with the wine, but his trousers were black, so it wasn't like the spot showed greatly, was it? And yes, America had spent the first few (read: twenty) minutes pushing the salad around her plate and poking at the roast with her fork, but she had simply been making sure that she had gotten a reasonable amount of salad, and the best slice from the roast. At least, those were the conclusions that England drew, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head telling him that America had been pushing the salad around to see if the plate would melt, and poking the roast to see if it would explode on impact.

"Well then," he began, picking up both plates, "shall we move on to dessert?" His eyebrow twitched slightly as America looked dubiously in the direction of the kitchen.

"You…ah…didn't _bake_ anything, did you, Artie?" she asked tentatively, a nervous smile crossing her face. "I mean, I'm still surprised I haven't died from dinner yet, (though I'm pretty sure I'll be throwing it up later). I'm not sure I can do an arsenic cake chaser." England bit back his impulse to throw the whole mass of dishes at her.

"I bought a tin of biscuits, you dizzy cow!" he growled, making his way over to the kitchen. Grabbing the tin in question as well as the two champagne flutes, he stomped back over to the table, muttering under his breath once more about ungrateful, uneducated nations with no more couth than a wet newspaper. "Here," he said, shoving the flute with the ring toward Ally—nearly missing shoving it up her nose. Blinking in surprise, America took the flute carefully, making sure that there were no other fragile objects coming her way. England had this knack of throwing crockery about when he got angry enough, and while it did wonders for her reflexes, Ally really wasn't dressed for playing dodge ball to a set of glasses and silver. Watching England warily as he sat, she tilted her glass slightly towards him as he picked up his.

"Cheers, then!" she said brightly, downing the flute in one gulp. England's eyes widened dramatically, hoping that somehow the ring had become adhered to the bottom of the glass, because if Ally actually _swallowed_ it—and Fate, the vindictive bitch that she was, decided to once more frown on him, as America started to choke. Panicking, England ran around the table, trying to remember how the Heimlich maneuver worked as he went.

_One fist, two hands, under the ribs, right? Oh, to hell with it all!_ Hoping that he wouldn't arbitrarily kill his lover, England started thrust-pulling on America's stomach, below her rib-cage. He must have done something right, because suddenly the ring flew out of America's mouth, lodging somewhere under the vicinity of his refrigerator. England could care less at the moment, as his concern was more focused on Ally, who was busy throwing up the remains of dinner on his shoes. _Guess I didn't do it right after all,_ he noted absently, trying to remember where he had bought that particular set of shoes. He hadn't needed to buy a set in 10 years.

"Damn, Iggy," Ally finally managed after going through a few dry heaves. "Dinner goes down okay, but the champagne is out to get me? Did you make it too?" Arthur decided then and there that he would make America replace his shoes, as well as treat _him_ to a nice dinner—after she cleaned up the mess on his floor.

* * *

Other attempts had been made, and failed almost as spectacularly, and England was finding himself quickly at the end of his rope. He only knew of one other person who could come up with something on the fly that might actually appeal to America's dramatic sense without being too horribly cliché (he hoped). Hence his current visit to France, under the auspice of "trade negotiations"—which wasn't a lie. If Francis helped him, he wouldn't beat the piss out of him next World Meeting, a fair trade by England's standards.

* * *

"Well, have you tried the traditional approach of asking her father for her hand in marriage?" England glared at France across the top of his tea cup. Francis, used to this behaviour, merely raised an eyebrow in query. "I merely ask, because it's difficult for even _you_ to have that go wrong."

"I _am_ her father, you bloody fool," he said, rather loudly, as several of the patrons of the café turned and eyed him with suspicion. France began to chuckle quietly as England's eyebrow twitched in earnest. "A fact which you damn well _knew_, and if you can't be bothered to actually_ help_ me, I'm going to go ask _Canada_ how _you_ did it. Ah wait, you're still fumbling over that." Pleased at the stiffness that had entered France's smile, England took another sip of (rather abysmal by his standards) tea.

"_Touché_, my old enemy," France replied. "I suppose since you're here at all, you must be willing to actually _accept_ my advice on matters of _l'amour_." England rolled his eyes. "If that is the case," France continued, ignoring him, "then let us proceed with what you have and have not done."

"Must we?" England asked grimly, looking pained. "Let's just say I've failed rather spectacularly, and leave it at that, yeah?"

"Oh no, _mon ami_," France replied with a decidedly evil grin. "If I am to know how to assist you in your pursuit of your _belle Amérique_, I will need to know everything that you have done. With details." England glowered at his tea, realizing there was no escape to be had on the subject. He knew he needed help at this point, and at least he had some blackmail material stowed to keep France in line—no matter how much the bastard thought otherwise. Girding his mental loins, he began to relay the few disasters that had prevocated the current meeting. His eyebrow began to twitch when he saw France sitting back with a smug smile developing above the line of the stupid little cup that the bastard _insisted_ to have his infernal "_café au lait_" in. Never mind that England _knew_ it was supposed to be in a large bowl-looking thing and served in the bloody _morning_—and he quickly realized that he was getting angry about what the hell the frog was _drinking_. Which meant he was quickly losing control of the situation. Not a good sign. He took a deep breath, counted to ten in the oldest English he knew—twice—and resumed sipping his tea with what he hoped appeared to be artful nonchalance.

"As I said before, I've failed rather spectacularly," he said, somehow stretching his mouth into some semblance of a "pleasant" smile. He watched France cautiously peer at his hands, as though looking for hidden knives or poisoned darts. Which, really, should be telling in their rather…tumultuous relationship over the centuries. "So," he pressed on, "any ideas?"

"Well…" France began, looking off into the distance in what he probably thought was a "ponderous" look. In reality, it just made the other nation look constipated. "I suppose we could try a romantic dinner again—"

"Oh, for God's sake!"

"—with the addition that you go to one of _my_ restaurants," France continued, glaring. "I know that the food will be not only edible," A twitch of England's eyebrow, "it will have such strong sentiments of _l'amour_ that your _belle Amérique_ will swoon into your arms regardless of how you bot—_deliver _the proposal," he concluded hastily, as he watched England's teacup break from its handle from the force of England's grip. By this point, England's expression had begun to resemble the perpetual scowl that he had worn after America's little Revolution. (And yes, it fully deserved the capitals.)

"Anything else?" England gritted out through a smile that looked as though he were swallowing glass. France cocked his head to the side and studied his old friend-slash-enemy for a moment. The fact that he wasn't drenched in tea and bleeding yet was a very good sign that England was taking this very seriously. Nodding to himself, France continued on with his plans.

"I would also recommend that you find a romantic poem to say to her—preferably one in _my_ beautiful language, as it will suit the…_ambiance_, shall we say, of the restaurant, but any _romantic_ poem will do. And before you tell me that you don't know any of _mon beau français_, do remember that I occupied you for a few centuries." England's grimace eased slightly at the first, only to resume at the reminder of their shared history. Deciding to ignore it, he looked down at the remains of his teacup.

"I suppose I could dust off a few good sonnets—" France's eyes widened and he spat out his coffee.

"_NO!_ No sonnets! You know America _hates_ sonnets. I _know_ you could not have been as dim as to have forgotten _that_." England blinked several times. It wasn't often that France dropped his damn affectation for America's name.

"Very well," he muttered, glancing at his pocket-watch. "And as fascinating as all this has been, Francis—"

"You are welcome, Arthur," France replied with one of his rare, genuine smiles. "Just promise me one thing," he continued, looking slightly apprehensive. "_No sonnets_."

* * *

So off England went, booking a reservation for six the next night at one of the few French restaurants in London he could stand. He went back to the jewelers again, and was nonplussed to find that the original person he had talked to regarding the ring had quit over the last time he brought it in looking like it had been run over by a lawn mower. (It had, in fact, been set by America's sink, attached to a giant, stuffed Cthulhu, (America wasn't exactly the teddy bear type). When Ally had seen Cthulhu, she swept it up in her arms, and England watched—with a fair amount of resignation at this point—as the ring flew off the smaller tentacle that he had put it on, and fell down into her garbage disposal.) He was told that they had melted down the ring and remade a new one—that he had to pay for. Grumbling under his breath, he handed over his card and glowered at the innocent looking velvet box sitting on the counter.

_You had better be worth it_, he warned the unsuspecting box. _If I have to replace you again, I'll go somewhere else and just _leave_ you wherever America has destroyed you_. The box, unsurprisingly, had no reply, but England humoured himself to think that it looked a bit more nervous.

After the jewelers came the dreaded phone call to America regarding the reservations for dinner. She was staying in London for a few days for…something. England wasn't sure about the details. Probably because America had been particularly vague on the subject. Either way, he knew she had the evening free. Now all that was left to do was convince _her_ that going to a fancy French restaurant was better than McDonald's and a (probably) trashy horror film. An hour conversation, and a painfully extracted promise of an _Aliens_ marathon later, England, harried but triumphant, mentally crossed his fingers in hopes that _this_ time it might all come together without any more mishaps.

* * *

Upon waking for the fateful dinner, England blearily rubbed his eyes and reached up to scratch his head—only to freeze when he felt strands of his hair longer than he remembered. His eyes widened as he dashed to the toilet, hoping beyond hope that he was mistaken. Skidding to a halt in front of the mirror, he looked up, somewhat cringing.

"Oh bleeding _hell_," he—or she, as she had indeed switched genders—said feelingly at her reflection. At least, what she could see of her reflection. "Where the hell did I put those glasses _this_ time," she grumbled, trying frantically to remember what happened to all her female counterpart's clothing and accessories since the last time she switched. _At least __**this**__ time I'll have proper undergarments_, she thought grimly, remembering the last change in 1965, when she had discovered that all her clothes still dated from the 1800's, the last change for _then_. And while corsets were popular again now, she had no desire to stuff herself into one unless dictated by strict fashion protocols. But now, instead of a leisurely paced day, followed by a (hopefully) blissful night had turned into a mad scramble to various clothing stores in the area, with the hopes of finding a dress suitable enough for the evening. She finally found something presentable in Harrods. Dress safely taken care of, she swung downstairs for some cosmetics—and a brief lesson on how to use them once more. What she would have worn for make-up in the 1960's was not exactly what would be considered a good idea in today's society. She was almost out the door before realizing that she didn't have any shoes to wear. Sighing, she swung back around and headed to find something that she wouldn't kill herself in for a nice date. Twenty minutes, and three crying sales assistants later, she left with what she considered a sensible pair of open-toed heels, the heels only being one inch.

_Like I would have survived some of those five-inch stiletto monstrosities they kept throwing at me_, she thought wryly, knowing that she would have ended up in the A&E walk-in centre that evening if she had tried to wear them. She had enough difficulty with two inches. Five would have just been a disaster waiting to strike.

Safely ensconced once more at home with her purchases around her, England glanced at the clock, only to realize she had a little less than an hour left to get ready for meeting America at the restaurant. Glaring at the clock, she scrambled her way upstairs to hurriedly dress, feeling somewhat like a Cinderella whose fairy Godmother only gave her a dress on the bed and a pair of slippers, and then got bored and left before finishing the job. She quickly remembered why she hated stockings—and why she bought three pairs of the blighted things. The first she stabbed a thumb through, the second she caused two runs. She finally slowed down enough for the third, praying that it would go smoothly. Luck seemed to be with her, as the slinky material crawled up her legs without a hitch (and if she used a little magic to guarantee it, well, no one would tell). She then ran over and grabbed her dress, awkwardly slipping it on over he head, and adjusting the areas where the fabric clung slightly. Why did everyone in the modern age love clothes that were so form-fitting? The sleeves, long and delicate like butterfly wings brushed her arms every so often as she walked over to the toilet. Then came the exhausting process of applying the myriad of cosmetics that the woman behind the counter deemed "essential" for a nice night on the town.

First was to put on the foundation, which made her skin feel like it was suffocating. Next was the eye stuff. After almost stabbing her eye with the mascara brush twice, she swore and threw the damn thing into the dust bin. The eye-liner went a little better, and she remembered enough about how to apply the shadow and blusher from previous occasions. She balked at putting anything on her lips. She hated the feel of the wax of lipstick, and lip-gloss was too sticky—not to mention that both tasted _awful_. She had a little bit of rosewater that still appeared to be in good shape left over from the 1800's, along with a pretty cameo she had bought on impulse, when it appeared that she was not going to escape going to a formal ball. She left her hair alone beyond the cursory combing. She very well remembered torturing and teasing it into all those hairstyles for that ball. Not again. _Never again_, she swore with a shudder.

Returning downstairs, England debated the merits of wearing one of her long coats. On the one hand, it was formal enough that she _probably_ could get away with it, even being a man's coat. On the other hand, it was a warm night, and she really didn't want to feel more awkward than she already was. Mentally throwing up her hands, she went and grabbed the evening bag she purchased for the occasion (making sure the ring box was inside), slipped on her shoes, and walked out into the warm night, hailing at a taxi.

The ride to the restaurant was a short one, which did nothing to settle her nerves. Tonight was it. She was finally going to propose to her America. Through all the obstacles, and failed deliveries, it all came down to this night. Because while she loved America with her entire being, her heart could not take another failure. She'd just take it as a sign that Fate was set against them and let them continue on the course that had already been set. She'd watch the ends of people who went against Fate. She was there for many of the disasters that befell her people because of it. Which only added to her nerves. Upon arrival, she made her way to the maître d'.

"I have a reservation," she said crisply, feeling back on comfortable territory. The maître d' merely raised an eyebrow and asked for her name, which she gave curtly. She watched as the man looked through his book for the reservations for the evening, finger running down pages until it stopped on what she assumed was her reservation made the day previous.

"I have the reservation, madam," he replied, brow furrowed. England tensed at the unspoken "but" lingering in the man's words. "However the reservation was made by an _Arthur_ Kirkland."

_Of course it had to go like this,_ she thought sourly, trying to figure out how to try to get around this hurdle. _It's not like I can say "Oh, yes, I made that last night, and believe me, I was not expecting to wake up as a woman today," now can I?_

"You see," she began, looking up at the man through her eyelashes—a trick she saw America try on unsuspecting men when she wanted a discount on something, "I'm proposing to my…partner today, and my brother said he'd help me because Al can be terribly nosey, and he must have forgotten to put it in my name. I'm Addison Kirkland." She watched with satisfaction as the maître d's expression softened and looked almost fond. "I'm terribly sorry about the mix-up," she continued, looking as contrite as possible. The maître d' smiled benignly and quickly had a waitress escort her to her table. She had asked for one in the back of the restaurant, knowing that if the whole thing got bollocksed up once more, the rest of the patrons would (hopefully) be left in (relative) peace. All that was left was to wait until America arrived.

_Hopefully she won't be too put off by me being like this_, England fretted, glancing down at her dress. _It's one thing to get a proposal from your long-standing male lover. It's another entirely to get one from your lover's lady-double._ She glanced at her watch, biting her lip when she noticed that America was ten minutes late. _Relax_, she told herself firmly. _America is usually a few minutes late to everything._

"Excuse me," a voice sounded at her ear, "is this seat taken?" Wonderful, she was about to be propositioned by some tipsy man on the night she was proposing to her lady-love. Of course.

"It is, in fact, if you don't mind," she replied coolly, not turning around. "I am waiting for my date, and I would greatly appreciate you removing yourself from my table." The man's only response was to chuckle softly.

"Are you sure there are no exceptions?" he pressed, putting a large hand on her shoulder. She bristled, furious.

"Now see here, you arrogant—" she started, turning, only to fall silent at whose hand was on her shoulder. "Alli-Alfred," she stuttered, staring up at America, who waved cheerily. England's cheeks heated, and she stared down at her napkin. _It would figure that America would switch too_, she reflected ruefully. Glancing up, she noticed that America had dressed for the occasion as well, in a full suit and tie. She watched as he moved to sit across from her at the small table, a large smile crossing his face.

"Nice to know that it's not just me that had a weird morning," he said brightly, blue eyes lighting up behind his glasses. "Though it sure made the President do a double-take," he continued grinning. "Between him and your Prime Minister, Ar-_Addy_, I had the best spit-takes _ever_!" England's nervousness, just like that, vanished.

"Don't call me that!" she snapped. "And have some respect for your country's leader, Alfred. Did I raise you with no sense of decorum whatsoever?" America's face was a study in sour annoyance.

"Was just saying it was funny 's all, Addison. Lighten up," he muttered into his water. Their waitress picked that moment to swing by and ask what they wanted for drinks. England decided on tonic water with a twist of lime—though she desperately wanted something stronger at this point. Alfred ordered a Shirley Temple—a cute habit that made England hide a smile behind her menu. After a minute or two debating the different forms of appetizers, America overruled England and ordered smoked-fish pâté canapés. The waitress left, leaving the pair of nations staring at their respective parts of tablecloth in a somewhat awkward silence.

"So, um," America began after clearing his throat. "You look nice, Addison." England raised her eyes and smiled shyly at him. He blushed and looked at a spot somewhere past her head. "You know, when you put in the effort and wear something besides old people clothes." England glowered at him, counting to ten first in Middle, then modern English.

"Thank you, Alfred," she replied tightly. "You look very nice yourself. It's good to know all those lessons on _etiquette_ weren't lost on you." She was determined not to lose her usually tenuous hold on her temper tonight. Somehow she's get through it, and recite that awful frog's poem to America tonight, give over the ring, and America would say yes. She was _not_ going to fail this time. With the exception of the gender swap, and America's usual tact, charm, and grace (something that England was very used to maneuvering around), nothing had gone wrong. _Yet_, England thought, surreptitiously knocking on the bottom of their table.

"Yeah, gotta love those lovely lessons back in the dark ages." America's face showed obvious signs of tension, and he had begun to fiddle with his napkin. England knew that America wouldn't apologize. It just wasn't something that her lover really did. At least, not for something as "trivial" as hurt feelings. The Pig War had only warranted an "oops, my bad" from America for heaven's sake. She sighed, letting the tense moment pass. It wasn't worth it in the long run to trade barbs all night over their entrées, into dessert. Not with the ring burning the proverbial hole in her handbag.

The waitress came and went once more with their drinks, as well as taking their orders. The pair had managed—somehow—to segue into harmless conversation with easy chatter laced in gentle ribbing and teasing. England was finally relaxing enough to let her nerves go, and just enjoy a wonderful meal (for all his faults, she would—grudgingly—admit that the frog knew how to cook) with America, something that she'd missed in the last few months, as duties in their respective countries had kept them apart, save the odd phone call, email, or (on very rare occasions), instant message. America seemed to feel the same, as his demeanor changed from loud and brash (his coping mechanism when nervous) to a bit less loud and witty. At one point, he had started telling a story involving a misplaced memo for one of the President's aides, and how it had ended up in the First Lady's dog's basket. The resulting hilarity had England laughing helplessly into her tonic water. She returned with a story involving a rather funny misunderstanding between France and Spain during the Renaissance that found America in stitches across from her. At last dinner was cleared away, and dessert was delivered—along with a bottle of champagne. England frowned at the bottle, knowing she hadn't ordered it. Turning it around, she noticed it came with a card.

"_Bon chance, mon ami!_" it read. France. Touched, she resolved to only hit him a few times in the next world meeting. Noticing America's curious eyes, she muttered a quick charm that made the card say "compliments of the management" instead before turning it toward him. He tried not to use magic often in from of America. It made the other nation nervous, which in turn made England nervous, which usually caused something in the spell to go awry—or America would walk in at just the wrong moment, and disrupt everything.

"From the management, huh. What, you bribe the maître d' for a reservation or something?" America asked, staring at the bottle in fascination, easy grin and raised eyebrow letting England know that he was only teasing.

"Actually, Alfred," she began, smiling slightly, "there is something I need to tell you." America's eyes went comically wide, and he almost dropped the bottle as he fumbled it back into it's basket.

"Eng-Ar-_Addison_, you know I was kidding, right?" he said quickly, glancing around nervously. England bit back a laugh.

"Yes, Alfred. But I did still have something important to tell you." England took a deep breath. "Now, I know that I tend to go on a bit sometimes, but I ask that you please, _please_ just let me go uninterrupted until I finish." America's eyes grew wider, and England worried they were going to pop out of his skull.

"Y-yeah, Addison, sure." He leaned forward, a frown beginning to develop between his eyes.

_Like hell you will_, England thought dryly. But, America did promise, and this time looked about as good as any. _Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose_. Taking another breath to steel her nerves once more before reciting.

"Lately as dreaming on a stair I stood  
you passed me by, and, by looking on my face,  
blinded my eyes with the immediate grace  
of unanticipated neighbourhood.  
As lightning splits the clouds, my heart and blood—"

"Are you…quoting one of Francis' crappy poems at me?" America asked as England stumbled over the awkward sentences. Her French was a bit rusty, she knew, but she had practiced for weeks after picking her poem. Her eyebrow merely twitched before resuming the recitation. She was determined to show America that she cared enough about him to go through this. All to say that she loved the other nation. All to propose, as she had failed so many times to do.

"Split with your beauty, and began to race,  
now ice, now fever, shattered in their place  
by that unparalleled beatitude.  
And if your hand in passing had not beckoned—  
your whiter hand than is—"

Alfred leaned back in his chair, a slightly stunned expression on his face. "You are! What the _hell_, Ar-Addison? Did you lose a bet or something? You do realize you're screwing up how that goes, right?" he laughed, noting how she changed one phrase from "the swan's white daughter" to "and you look like a frog." At which point, England's nerves got the better of her once more, and she lost what little composure she had left. Pulling out the box with the ring, she chucked it at Alfred's head, and ran out of the restaurant cursing and _not_ crying.

_Damn hormones, damn frogs, and damn America to __**hell**__!_

__

_

* * *

_

Morning, thankfully, brought England back to his old self, though he wasn't in a particularly good frame of mind to appreciate it. He had decided after the last debacle, he'd let himself have a bit of a lie-in, and pulled out the book he was in the middle of, only to put it back down as he realized he was rereading Jane Austen's _Emma_—not, he noted sourly, a good book to read when one has utterly failed for the umpteenth time to make a decent proposal to his long-standing lady-love. He glanced over at his mobile, and noticed he had received two texts and one voice message from America. He debated reading them, but ultimately decided to just leave them be for now. He felt wounded enough at the moment.

Sighing, he pulled himself out of bed over to where his dressing gown laid out. Throwing it on, along with a pair of slippers, he made his way downstairs over to the kitchen to put on a kettle for tea. He glowered at the bright sun streaming in through the window, wishing that it was at least overcast to resemble his mood. The kettle whistled, and he poured the hot water over the leaves, feeling a small sense of calm wash over him at the familiar routine. He let the tea steep as he went about his kitchen for breakfast. He pulled out a pan and set himself to making eggs and bacon, uncaring that the final result left him with crunchy eggs and charcoal bacon. Setting the food on a plate, he brought it to join his cup of tea on the table, grabbing his bowl of sugar cubes along the way. Eating, he stared out the window, chewing mechanically, and ignoring the empty place across from him. The place that America would have sat if he hadn't failed once more last night. The place where she would have sat with his ring on her finger. The place—

England threw his plate at the opposite wall in frustration, as angry tears slid down his face. His breath hitched, but he refused to let out the sob threatening at the back of his throat. He angrily scrubbed the tears from his face, got up, and retrieved his broom to sweep the bits of china and remnants of breakfast into the dust bin. He ignored that his arms were shaking slightly, or that there was more dust than usual as he sniffed while more tears fell. After setting the kitchen to rights, he decided that he might as well go about tidying the rest of his home.

Duster in one hand and cleaning rag in the other, he began with his bookcases, moving slowly around the bric-a-brac that he had accumulated over the centuries. Pausing only to stare at the frame with two portraits contained; one of America and one of Canada when they were little, both about ten. France, in a rare moment of charity had sent England the portrait of Canada, so England had set America down and had two painted: one for France, and one for himself. The one for France featured America sitting atop her favourite horse. This one showed her in the garden, amongst the roses, a soft smile lighting her face. England traced the side of her face with his finger, before shaking himself and moving along to the next task.

He was midway through his laundry when the phone rang—his home phone, not his mobile. Frowning, he set the trousers he had picked up back into the laundry basket and made his way over to the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello?"

"A little bird told me that you had troubles last night," came the smooth tones of France from the other end. England debated hanging up.

"Called to gloat, frog?" he asked coldly instead, tongue-lashing waiting in the wings.

"_Non_, _mon ami_," France replied, sounding _sad_ of all things. "I called to see how you were doing." England pulled the phone away from his ear and eyed it in suspicion. France never called to "see how he was doing." France would show up with a smarmy grin on his face, ready to give him no end of hell for his many failures—and bringing some up when he was beginning to feel better. France didn't give a damn, to be blunt.

"Funny," England replied, feeling like the world had just twisted on its axis. "I thought I would have noticed Satan ice-skating out my window." He heard France chuckle softly before sighing.

"Be that as it may, my old friend, I was told that last night was particularly excruciating, and I wanted to lend my support." England tried to remember when his tea expired, and who (if anyone) had been near it recently that may have drugged it. _Those eggs had __**seemed**__ all right_, he mused absently.

"Right. So America said something to Canada, who then called you and demanded that you do something, yeah?" Another sigh.

"Canada was in the restaurant," France began, oblivious to England's complete humiliation with that sentence. "He wanted to make sure that the roof didn't collapse or that a fire didn't break out for your proposal. He watched what happened and was very upset when he arrived here." A pause. "And you know that I cannot stand to see my _beau Canada_ upset." England nodded in satisfaction. World order restored. "Besides," France continued, "I was part of this escapade, and I care about the outcome. And about the state of your heart at the end of it." Or not.

"It went bloody awful," England said bluntly. "The only highlight was that story about you and Spain back in the Renaissance—"

"You said that was forgotten!" France yelped.

"I must have forgotten that fact," England drawled, a devious smile crossing his face. He could hear France roll his eyes.

"But of course." England grin widened before he sobered.

"I am all right," he said softly. "Well, I _will_ be all right," he amended after a moment's pause. He heard France take a deep breath.

"If you are sure, _mon ami_," he replied seriously, causing England to once again feel like the moon and the sun were switching positions.

"I am," he said firmly. "I also need to go finish things here, if you don't mind, frog."

"_Bien sur_, _mon ami_! _Au revoir_!" England hung up to France's chuckles. He made his way back over to the laundry basket, put in a load, and went upstairs to see if he could stomach another look at _Emma_. He glanced again at his mobile, this time showing that he had three text messages from America. Giving into the inevitable, he flipped open his phone and listened to the message.

"Arthur?" America's (still-male) voice echoed in the phone, sounding confused and sorry. "You left something behind at the restaurant. I haven't looked at it yet, though the suspense is kinda killing me, so—oh shit! _Arthur_! I…_fuck_! You—I—_Arthur_!" The call cut off there, and England was asked if he wanted to save the message or delete it. He replayed it instead, noticing that America sounded close to tears toward the end, then deleting it. He read the first message which simply said

"r u ok?"

The second:

"want 2 see u. can i come over?"

And finally:

"i'm sorry. so sorry."

England rolled his eyes at the utter lack of grammar and spelling, trying to distract himself from the tightness in his chest and the lump in his throat. He forced his shaking fingers to reply:

"Not today, America. Just…not today."

He set down the mobile and, suddenly feeling exhausted, decided that a nap was in order. The mobile beeped again, letting him know the America had replied, but he drifted off before checking the message.

"coming over in 2 hrs. need 2 talk."

* * *

England woke about two hours later feeling refreshed and able to face the rest of his day. He went down to the washing machine, emptied the load into the laundry basket, and carried it out to the garden. He methodically hung each piece of clothing on the line, letting his thoughts wing their way through the day previous, as well as the voice message from America. He came to the conclusion that he could live with what they currently had. He didn't have to have a ring on her finger or a ceremony to tell him that they were together. Yes, he treasured the tradition, but he could live without it if that's what would keep America around. Granted, she hadn't said _no_, but the way everything was going, and how she was teary on the message told him that he should just drop the issue. Maybe he could commission a necklace out of the gems that were in the ring. Make a nice present as an apology for being on edge the past few months. He was pulled abruptly from his thoughts by an very loud thud on his front door.

_Dear lord, don't tell me Canada insisted that France __**visit**__ me_, he thought incredulously, walking to the door. _I understand the lad is caring and concerned, but I have my limits_. Opening the door, he braced himself for the onslaught of smarmy French words, and blinked when he was presented instead with a fidgety America (female) on his doorstep. He knew his mouth had sagged open, but he couldn't find himself caring. He knew he had told her not to come today.

"I know you said not to come," she said, as if echoing his thoughts. "But I needed to see you. A lot." She wasn't meeting his eyes, which was quite a feat considering that he was a good six inches shorter than her. He noticed that she was playing with her purse strap with one hand, and had the other almost clenched.

"America?" he asked at last. She jumped, and her eyes flew up from his shoes to meet his confused gaze. Her eyes were red and puffy; she had obviously been crying. She smiled sheepishly, before biting her lip and holding out the box. England's heart fell, and he suddenly felt divorced from his body as he reached out and took it from her hand. "That's it, then?" he heard himself say, as if from a long distance off. America looked confused. _Why is she confused?_

"I…I thought you'd be…y'know…happy, 'n stuff," she said, eyes dropping back down to stair at the steps. "I mean…" Her hand fidgeted again on the strap, and something seemed to sparkle off it, catching England's eye. As though in slow motion, he reached his hand out to pull hers from her purse, drawing it towards him. There, on her third finger, next to her pinky, was a ring. _The_ ring. England looked up, eyes wide and confused and hopeful. America looked at him, then away, bringing her other hand up to the back of her head nervously.

"So…er…since you already chucked this at me, I've started looking at dresses and…yeah. The President has given me two months for the wedding and honeymoon, but that's it because we've got big plans for the economy going and—oh! I don't really want to get married at Westminster Abbey or Saint Paul's Cathedral, so…could we maybe get married at like, a park or something? And— " England's mouth open and closed soundlessly, and he felt the urge to bang is head repeatedly against the doorframe.

"Sod it," he growled as he grabbed her arm. Yanking her down slightly, he fixed his lips on hers, intent on kissing her to silence. Pulling back again, he noted with pleasure that America's expression had become somewhat foggy.

"I take that as a 'yes' to the park idea?" she asked dazedly.

"Just as long as I don't _ever_ have to propose to you again," England grumbled. "Or buy you another ring," he added as an afterthought, pulling her inside and firmly closing the door.

_Fin_

**End notes:** The poem that England is quoting is actually a French poem. Ironically enough, it's a sonnet written by Ronsard (1524-1585). This particular sonnet is called "L'autre jour que j'estois sur le haut d'un degree" or "The other day I stood on a stair" (roughly translated, as my French is also a bit rusty), which is from his _Sonnets pour Hélène_ (Sonnets for Helen). The translation/rendition I used is by Humbert Wolfe which is more poetic than precise. I figured it was Romantic enough to appeal to England.

Hope you enjoyed!

~Rosethorn


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